


Venus in Tights

by what_alchemy



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Barebacking, Costume Kink, M/M, Rimming, deteriorating sense of reality
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-10
Updated: 2016-03-10
Packaged: 2018-05-26 00:25:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,009
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6216175
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/what_alchemy/pseuds/what_alchemy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bucky's not sure about this shiny new Steve.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Venus in Tights

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into 中文 available: [Venus in Tights](https://archiveofourown.org/works/6960880) by [junedune](https://archiveofourown.org/users/junedune/pseuds/junedune)



> Happy 99th birthday, Bucky Barnes!

Steve got his own room in London. Because, somehow, he was a Captain. And he was more than two hundred pounds of solid muscle and at least a couple inches taller than Bucky with no persistent wheeze in his chest and aching curve in his back. There was a dame back there who only had eyes for him. Little Stevie, prize runt of Brooklyn Heights. Steven Grant Rogers, 4F, 4F squared, 4F to the hundredth power. Bucky’s fella.

Bucky kept waiting to wake up. He knew what happened to guys like him—guys strapped to tables behind enemy lines getting little bits of themselves carved away slow and easy while they waited for the rescue that would never come. They went somewhere else because the brain was fantastically adept at self-preservation. Better than _Astounding Stories_. 

So he was in _Captain_ Steve’s _private room_ in London, sitting on Steve’s _full size bed_ and Steve was taking up more space than Bucky ever thought could be possible, and Bucky just couldn’t stop blinking.

 _Wake up,_ he told himself, but Steve was here with him for the first time in more than a year and his eyes were the same as ever but nothing in him hurt anymore and a wild voice without caution or care told Bucky to _stay the fuck asleep, soldier, and never, ever go back_.

Bucky blinked and blinked as Steve flitted around the room fidgeting as if he didn’t know how to be alone with his best guy anymore. Bucky blinked and blinked. When he shook his head and looked down, he saw a thick straggle of bright blue wool peeking out real unregulation-like from underneath Steve’s bed. A scarf? He picked it up only to have a pair of tights unroll in his hands. His heart clattered against his ribs. He blinked some more.

“Oh, jeez,” Steve said. He snatched the tights right from Bucky’s fingers and a dull red blush crept up his neck all the way to the tops of his ears. “I’ll never have to wear those again, thank God.”

Bucky’s eyes roved over the thick muscles that filled out Steve’s uniform. It was…odd. He didn’t know if he’d like it, all that bulk overcoming him instead of a whipcord wisp of a boy slotting in against Bucky’s broad chest, nose in the hollow of his throat, ass one perfect handful. Steve grabbed the rest of the costume from under the bed and made to stuff it in some closet to be forgotten forever, but the firm, corded muscles of Steve’s thighs strained against the fabric of his uniform trousers, and his ass—Jesus, Mary, and Joseph but it looked just like a peach, pressed perfect and round in the seat of Steve’s pants. 

Bucky’s eyes were wide now.

“You don’t _have_ to,” he said, and Steve turned around, eyebrows raised. “But you _could_.”

Steve’s Adam’s apple bobbed. His hand dropped to his side, the tights clenched in his fist. His tongue swiped over that plush lip of his that was _just the same, just the same_. Bucky’s throat went dry. 

“I thought—” Steve cleared his throat. “I thought maybe you wouldn’t want…”

“Hey,” Bucky said, standing. It took two strides to get chest to chest with the towering behemoth Steve had become. He had to look up at him, and boy but his mind played the best tricks sometimes. “Ain’t nothing could make me not want, all right?”

Steve let out a breath that puffed across Bucky’s face. Bucky licked his lips.

“Turn around,” Steve said, voice ragged. 

Bucky turned his back, and he heard the click of the door locking. He closed his eyes to the sound of Steve shuffling out of his uniform and he sent up a little prayer that he wouldn’t wake up, not now, not ever.

“All right,” Steve said after a moment. Bucky turned around and there he was: Captain America, the Man with the Plan, tights full to bursting beneath obscene little shorts. The stars and stripes were on full display, as was the cowl complete with dumb ear wings. No gloves or boots, and his bare stocking feet made him look oddly vulnerable. Bucky let out a breath like a laugh, and he could see it, there in the mutinous angle Steve was tipping his chin into—his best guy. A knot eased about his diaphragm just as heat coiled up through his groin.

“Well, Uncle Sam,” Bucky said, “never let it be said you don’t know how to treat your best and brightest.”

Steve’s mouth twisted into a smirk.

“Oh, I am _very_ grateful for your service to your country, son,” he said. “However can I repay you?”

“Golly,” Bucky said, dry as a drought in Egypt, and Steve’s eyes sparkled behind the mask. Bucky pushed two fingers into Steve’s mouth and watched those eyes go hooded as he sucked them in. His tongue was a hot, slick curl around his fingers, and the suction sent his blood throbbing through him like a freight train. He dragged his gaze down the lines and bulges of this new body and found Steve’s prick straining a knot into his shorts. He pulled his fingers out of Steve’s mouth and shoved him over to the bed, knees on the floor, face pressed into the mattress. It pushed a grunt out of him, but he spread his knees and arched his back so that peach of an ass only looked riper. 

Bucky toed off his boots and shucked his jacket, unbuttoned his shirt. He trailed a toe—half sticking out of his threadbare sock—over Steve’s ankle, his calf, his thigh, until it caught on the hem of his tiny shorts and Bucky heard Steve’s breath hitch just like the beginning of an asthma attack. But this was his brain firing madly, his last, profane Hail Mary, and there would be no asthma attacks today. 

“What’s it like, stuffing yourself into these?” Bucky said. 

Steve wriggled his ass and turned his face in the bedding so Bucky could see his profile, flushed and shining. He was panting.

“It’s—you wouldn’t believe it, Buck,” he said, panting. “I popped a hard on the first time I put this whole get up on and it wouldn’t go down for _days_.”

“Why?”

“It’s—it’s the goddamn _tights_.” His hips stuttered against the edge of the bed. “They’re kind of itchy and a little too tight and hell to get into, but I put the shorts on and, and, jeez, I don’t know, Buck, just the feeling of them rubbing against the fabric on my thighs, it’s like electricity straight to my—straight to my—”

“Straight to your what, Stevie?” Bucky pressed his foot up into the shorts, into the crack of Steve’s ass, into the hot, humid little space where Steve was helpless against him. He watched Steve shudder into the bed, one hand twisting in the bedding as the other crept down to give his prick some relief. “Ah ah ah,” Bucky said. “Hands where I can see ’em.” Steve groaned but tightened his roving hand in a sheet. “Now,” Bucky said, “straight to your _what_ , Stevie?”

“Straight to my asshole, Buck, goddamn you!”

Bucky growled and dropped to his knees, shoving those shorts down Steve’s thighs only to hobble him at the knee. Steve muffled a shout into the bedding as Bucky smoothed his hands over the globes of Steve’s perfect peach of an ass only to bunch the fabric up on either side of the seam and rend it open, and it was so easy, too easy, but Bucky didn’t care. He paused to marvel at the medical miracle hanging out of torn blue tights, round and delectable and begging for Bucky’s hands, his mouth, his prick.

“Fuck, Steve,” he said, and Steve arched his ass toward him. Bucky took pity on him and gripped him by the generous swell of his cheeks. He spread them apart to reveal a familiar dusky hole—unchanged by any cocktail of drugs and hormones, framed by a smattering of damp bronze hairs, and winking at him as if in welcome. Bucky shuddered and breathed deep the sweaty musk it gave off. He wondered, not for the first time, if he could get drunk off this, off Steve, off the heady combination of the two of them together, pushing and pulling, running and chasing, one never far behind the other. 

Bucky pushed his trousers down his thighs and his cock bobbed free, but he ignored it in favor of planting his hands on Steve’s ass and shoving his face between the cheeks. He dragged the flat of his tongue over Steve’s hole before pointing the tip and flickering it rapidly around the rim. Bless every tenement in Brooklyn; Steve knew how to swallow back his ecstasy and muffle what slipped through. Bucky lashed that little asshole with his tongue until the muscle slackened and let him inside. He pushed his tongue in and curled it around the smooth, tight walls of Steve’s ass until Steve reached back and yanked Bucky closer by his hair. Bucky laughed but gave him what he wanted: suction on his hole, his tongue thrusting in and out in quick circular flicks. Bucky reached into the ruin of Steve’s tights to grab hold of Steve’s balls. He cupped them in a firm grip.

“Quit fuckin’ around,” Steve said in a growl. “Just fuck me already,”

“God, but you’re pretty when you’re swearin’ like a sailor,” Bucky said. He straightened up and Steve’s hands dropped to his ass to spread it further. Bucky landed a slap on Steve’s ass, and another near his crack, and another that grazed his hole. Steve squirmed beneath him, keening into the mattress. “Tell me what you need, Steve.”

“You’re so—fuck.”

“I wanna hear it.”

“Buck…” Steve pushed back, but his leverage was shot was the shorts around his knees and Bucky’s prick only left a sticky wet trail on what was left of his tights.

“C’mon, gorgeous,” Bucky said, slapping Steve’s asshole again. His quivered, slack and glistening, and Steve whined for more. “I wanna hear it out of that Sunday school Uncle Sam God Bless America jawline of yours. Tell me what you need, doll, or I ain’t gonna give it to you.”

Steve swore and made to move his hand to his prick, but Bucky grabbed his wrist and held it back. Steve shoved his face into the bedding, but Bucky heard it clear as crystal. 

“Need to be filled up, Buck,” Steve said. “Need a fucking ass full of cock and come, so just do it already!”

“That’s a good fuckin’ boy, Steve,” Bucky crooned. He let go of Steve’s wrist and bent to suck on Steve’s hole again.

“Fuck _off!_ ” Steve groaned, closing both hands around the back of Bucky’s head so he could push Bucky deeper inside. Bucky ate him deep and sloppy, ’til his hole was loose and hungry for him, ’til Steve was mindless as he rutted back into the contact. Bucky lifted his head and leaned over Steve’s taut body to tear the dumb cowl off his head, and Steve twisted around to look at him, color high and eyes too bright. “Buck,” he gasped.

“Shh,” Bucky said, and slid two of his fingers into Steve’s ass right up to the third knuckle. Steve collapsed into the bed as if his strings had been cut and squeezed tight around Bucky’s fingers. Bucky twisted his wrist and curled his fingers and Steve shoved back into his hand with a choked off gasp. “There it is,” Bucky murmured, rubbing his knuckles against the firm little gland that drove Steve nuts.

“Oh, shit,” Steve was saying. “Oh shit, oh fuck.” And so on. It was Bucky’s favorite thing, making Steve cuss.

“Steve,” Bucky said. “Where’s your stuff?”

“In my pack under the bed, hurry up.” Steve even had the gall to drum his stocking feet. Bucky bit an asscheek for his trouble and Steve squeaked. 

Bucky reached under the bed and found Steve’s pack. He rummaged around for the little jar every soldier was afforded and came up triumphant. He popped it open and scooped out a bunch of the slick. He pumped his cock with it a few times, but slathered it generously into and around Steve’s ass while he humped back into Bucky’s fingers. Bucky was three fingers deep when Steve said, “Enough already, Buck. Put me outta my misery.”

“Get outta that flag get up,” Bucky growled. “Wanna see you, Stevie.”

Steve straightened up enough to tear the top off his costume. The tights rode high on his waist, but the hole was only getting bigger. His back was as broad as an ox, and muscles Bucky didn’t even know human beings had rippled all over as he lay back down, head pillowed in his own bulging arms. He threw a look over his shoulder, lashes swept low, lip caught between his teeth. Handsomer than a matinee idol. Then again, he always was.

Eyes trained on Steve’s, Bucky lined his dick up to Steve’s hole with practiced ease. Steve’s eyes fluttered shut and he dropped his head into his arms. Bucky pushed in slow and easy, and when he popped through the second ring of muscle, he slid in all the way. Steve was tight and hot, same as he ever was, but the way the thick round asscheeks settled in against his pelvis was new and spine-wracking. Bucky had to close his eyes to clamp down on the urge to thrust until Steve was full to bursting. Steve tightened around him and pressed back.

“C’mon, Buck,” he said. “Don’t stop now, come _on_.”

Bucky trailed his hands down Steve’s back, noting the straight spine, the padding over the ribs, the strong, firm muscles. He curled his hands around Steve’s hips, dipped his thumbs into the sweet dimples at the small of his back just like he always did, and he drew back only to thrust back in. Steve reared up, back arched, mouth open to drag air into his big, clear, perfect lungs. Bucky twisted up the waistband of the tights in one hand and grabbed the back of Steve’s neck with the other before he snapped into a steady, rapid rhythm and sucked a kiss into Steve’s throat. 

Steve reared up and met him thrust for thrust. Distantly he heard the tear of fabric, and then Steve’s legs were free of the shorts and he kicked them up to drag Bucky down on top of him in a wild move Bucky had never even dreamed of. Steve bucked him off and Bucky was dizzy with it before he realized he was on his back and Steve was climbing on top of him and sliding down his cock with such a look of frenzied bliss that all Bucky could do was lie back and goggle at the texture of this dream, his final wish for their togetherness as all his synapses fired. He reached up for Steve’s pretty tits like a benediction. Steve closed his hands over Bucky’s, made him pinch and twist at his nipples as he rose and fell hard on Bucky’s cock. 

When Bucky came, the orgasm coiled tightly around the base of his spine and rolled through him like the tide until it crested and he soared, vision whiting out as he pumped everything he had, everything he was, everything he used to be and dreamed was still possible deep inside Steve. He rattled through the aftershocks, and when he opened his eyes, Steve was looking at his face with naked hunger. 

Steve’s rhythm stuttered and he hunched over Bucky, hand flying over his cock as he bottomed out on Bucky’s, and then he threw his head back, mouth open in a silent, strangled gasp, and came all over Bucky’s chest. He shook, back arching as he wrung every last drop from his balls, and finally slumped forward on his knees, face red, hairline damp. Bucky stroked over the wool-clad thighs bracketing his body. Bucky found himself feeling Steve all over, hands roving from stomach to sides to arms to neck to face. His jaw, his lips, his ears, his cheekbones, his eyes, his brows. The bump in his nose. Steve nosed lazily at his palm, kissing what he could.

“Are you real?” Bucky asked, and the way Steve’s eyebrows knitted together filled him with sadness. 

Bucky was still hard, and he could feel his own spunk leaking out of Steve’s body, but Steve made no move to separate them. He was heavy, heavier than anything Bucky had ever carried, but it was somehow an afterthought. Unimportant. Steve leaned down, planting his elbows on either side of Bucky’s head, and he looked him in the eye. He smelled earthy and sweat-sour and exactly like himself underneath, underneath where he was still Bucky’s own Steve Rogers. Bucky rubbed down Steve’s arms until he could encircle each wrist.

“If I ain’t,” Steve said, “then I don’t even want to know what you just did to your bedroll, pal.”

Bucky cracked a smile and tilted his face up. Steve kissed him, slow and sweet the way he always did after. And even though his eyes were closed, even though Steve was a massive, sweaty, comforting weight anchoring him to this bed, this body, this moment, Bucky blinked.

—

Steve’s clearing the stars from his eyes and hauling air into his lungs when he realizes he’s on the ground, and the person looming over him is all he’s got left of his best guy.

“I think I dreamed you,” Bucky says. “Oh, a long time ago.” He’s blocking out the light as he fills up Steve’s line of vision with the blue-grey familiarity of his eyes. They make Steve ache as much as the way they bore into him, searching for something just beyond the reach of memory. 

He sticks out his metal hand. And Steve, holding his breath, takes it.

**End**


End file.
